The Wounded Hawk

He had tried to comfort her, afterwards, but what could he say?

What could he say?

And so they lay there, Bolingbroke and his wife, through that long night of Michaelmas, each wondering what lay ahead for their loveless marriage.

And that deep-buried imp chuckled, and peeped into the future, and saw the merry mischief it could make.

XIII (#ulink_77e614a9-2b35-52b3-b76b-f6270f7d9c33)

The Feast of St Jerome

In the first year of the reign of Richard II

(Friday 30th September 1379)

Bolingbroke had waited only for the first stain of dawn in the east before he rose from his marital bed. As soon as he had dressed there came a tentative knock at the door and Margaret entered, her eyes studiously averted from Bolingbroke.

“My Lady Neville,” Bolingbroke said in a harsh voice, as Margaret gathered up a robe for Mary.

She finally looked at him.

He could say nothing about Catherine in front of Mary, but he needed to lock eyes with Margaret, if only to share his silent anguish and anger.

She returned his stare evenly. What did you expect? Did you think she would sit on her hands and weep and wait?

The skin about Bolingbroke’s eyes tightened. “My lady wife requires your comfort, Lady Neville,” he said. “It seems that I have discomforted her during the night.”

And with that he was gone.

As soon as the door closed behind him Mary put a trembling hand to her mouth, and Margaret sat down on the edge of the bed and gathered her into her arms.

Neville found Bolingbroke in the courtyard of the Savoy at weapons practice just as the bells of Prime rang out over London. The city was waking into life: barges plied the river, the cries of the fishermen and coal merchants drifting soulfully over the palace walls; carts and hooves rattled down the Strand moving produce into the markets; whores drifted into shadowy rooms to sleep off their night’s labours just as priests flung open the doors of London’s parish churches to face the sins of the city.

Neville halted in the shadows of an archway and watched.

Bolingbroke was dressed in a fortified leather tunic that hung down over his thighs, and thick studded gloves. A chain mail hood hung over his head, flowing over his shoulders and upper chest. In his hands he had a great sword, and with this sword he was trading blows with a sergeant-at-arms. Or rather, he seemed intent on murdering his sergeant-at-arms, who was clearly tiring.

Even as Neville moved forward from the shadows, the man slipped to the ground, and Bolingbroke stepped forward and raised his sword in both hands.

His face was twisted, his eyes blank.

“Bolingbroke,” Neville said softly, seizing Bolingbroke’s wrists in both his hands. “Cease. This man is not your enemy.”

Bolingbroke tore himself free, the sword clattering to the ground, and whipped about to face Neville.

His eyes were furious. He began to say something, then he visibly fought for control, finally forcing the fury from his gaze.

Bolingbroke took a deep breath. “William,” he said, half turning to face the sergeant-at-arms, “I do apologise to you. I meant no harm.”

The man managed a half smile, but his hands were shaking as he sheathed his sword. “If you one day direct that anger at the French, my lord, then I do not mind being the near-murdered target of your practice.”

“Well, one day, please Jesus, maybe I will,” Bolingbroke said, and nodded a dismissal at the man.

“And that day may be closer than you think,” Neville said as William walked away.

“What? What news?”

“Hal, your father sent me to find you. Richard has called a council of the great lords currently in London. We have an hour.”

Bolingbroke stared at Neville, then muttered a curse and ran for the door.

The courtyard of the palace of Westminster was clogged with horses, men-at-arms, pages, horse-boys, valets, squires, and ill-tempered nobles shouting for their attendants.

What could Richard want?

Although the Lords of the Privy Council were to be present at Richard’s hastily-called meeting, this was not a gathering of the Privy Council itself, for many more lords were to attend.

Bolingbroke and Neville dismounted from their horses, throwing their reins to the men of their escort. As they shouldered their way through the throng they saw Simon Sudbury, Archbishop of Canterbury, disappearing through the palace entrance way and, directly behind him, Thomas Brantingham, Bishop of Exeter.

They vanished inside in a flurry of scarlet and blue cloaks.

“Sudbury and Brantingham?” Bolingbroke muttered. “What is happening. Ah, look, there is my father!”

John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, had emerged from a side entrance and was now only a few paces from Bolingbroke and Neville.

“Father?” Bolingbroke said.

Lancaster’s face was grey—but grey with anger and frustration rather than illness. “Richard has decided to take personal control of government,” he said, and held up his hand for silence as Bolingbroke spluttered. “He is eighteen, and his grandfather had taken personal control at the same age. He has a right … and the Privy Council has nodded their collective age-addled heads.”

“But why?” Bolingbroke said.

Lancaster gave his son a bleak look. “Why not? Hal, Richard has the right to rule on his own. My regency would not last forever.”

“He is to keep you as a councillor, surely.”

Now Lancaster’s look was even bleaker. “Nay, Hal. Richard is determined to cast off the chains of past monarchs … and apparently I am the greatest weight of them all.”

Bolingbroke and Neville shared a look, but Lancaster interrupted before either could speak. “There is no good to be done idling about here with our questions. Come, let us hear what our king has to say.”

Richard was to meet with his lords in the Painted Chamber. When Bolingbroke and Neville entered, they both noted that the hall had been somewhat modified since they’d last seen it. Richard’s bed had gone from the dais at the top of the hall—he had apparently moved to one of the apartments adjoining the Painted Chamber, possibly the Queen’s apartments which were empty of a Queen—and the space was now occupied by several trestle tables cluttered with boxes, maps, small chests and several score documents. Neville instantly thought the scene bore a remarkable resemblance to Bolingbroke’s disordered office, which Neville still had to succeed in bringing under some degree of control.

Several large tables had been placed end to end in the centre of the hall to form one long table, chairs drawn up about it. To each side stood groups of nobles, murmuring between themselves, some sipping from cups of wine.

Some faces were apprehensive, others confident.

A loud laugh sounded, and Bolingbroke’s and Neville’s eyes jerked to a group of three men standing close to the dais.

Robert de Vere, Henry Percy the Earl of Northumberland, and his son Hotspur.